


Breaking Me

by EmeraldSage



Series: where I'm meant to be [3]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alfred is not a happy bean, Gen, Gratuitous Frozen 2 References, Grief/Mourning, In song form, Introspection, Post Burning of DC, War of 1812
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-17
Updated: 2020-10-17
Packaged: 2021-03-09 06:21:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27070042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmeraldSage/pseuds/EmeraldSage
Summary: The grief would never leave him.  He would never forget what it had felt like to be so empty and numb that the world seemed to still and haze before him.  He would never forget the ache in his heart, would carry the scar as long as he lived.But he would make this choice, here.  Like he had, that fated night, waking to the world calling him home.  He would make that choice, to hear that voice.And to do the next right thing.
Relationships: America & Canada (Hetalia), America & England (Hetalia)
Series: where I'm meant to be [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1816561
Comments: 1
Kudos: 31





	Breaking Me

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel to the nightmare inducing Chapter 7 of “Missing Me,” inspired by “The Next Right Thing,” by Kristen Bell from _Frozen 2_

Alfred was used to the dark. He’d lived once, dancing through the shadows in the dark, small and frightened of everything, but too curious to hide away from it. He’d known the dark of winter nights, when the sun went away too soon, and the plants were sluggish and sleepy, and he’d learned quickly to find somewhere warm to bed down at night. His own first, tragic death had been at the hands of the winter-dark frost, as a babe before Mejico - Azteca as she’d been then - had heard of his birth, of their mother’s passing, and sent an envoy to find him. He’d known that dark and known it well. He was leery of it, respectfully wary; but it didn’t scare him as many thought it did.

This dark was different.

It was a cold, aching shroud that enveloped him; a numbness that had settled into his bones and misted over his very thoughts until he couldn’t even think. It wasn’t scary, he’d realized, early on. It truly wasn’t.

It was empty, instead.

He sat, in the dark, just inside his small cabin by the shore. It had been a gift to him, from his father, a century ago. Not the cabin he’d grown up in, but a small cliffside cabin that Arthur had taken him to long ago, to teach him about the sea and the shore, and the magic that breathed between the two. It had always felt special to him, and he’d clung to it. Especially after their war.

Something inside him wrenched, and his eyes fell closed as the despair twisted inside of him.

Their  _ first  _ war. After the second…

The darkness of the cabin in the night felt like a gaping maw, and he shook like grass stirred by it’s hefty breath.

The life he knew was over. The lights had burned down and out, and he was alone, standing in the darkness, empty.

How did he resist the numbness - the gaping hole that had been ripped into him, and leaving him to bleed out all the warmth and love he’d held close and dear? How could he stand in the darkness when there was nothing in him left to hold him up?

His north star was gone and faded. His tears had dried to salty streaks and dripped out in the ashes of a battlefield months gone. His fury had burned out with the White House...with his heart.

He was alive. He hadn’t lost.

But he was  _ empty  _ and hollowed out inside, and it ached.

The only thing he could feel was grief.

Grief was heavy, he’d learned. It pulled him down, to his knees, almost breathless with the weight that had settled into his chest. Grief was cold and heavy, and unbearable.

That it pulsed in time with the too-warm, too painful burn that had yet to heal atop his heart...was something he didn’t like to think about.

He’d acknowledged, in his first war against his father, that there would be no turning back. No reconciliation that would fully heal the wound Alfred had carved into both their hearts, for all that Arthur was the one who gave him the tools to do it. He’d known, from the very moment he’d turned and fled from Arthur in that New York City inn, that there was nothing that would ease the betrayal his father felt but time. Nothing that would reopen that door but a bridge they built together, in a time still to come.

He had known and he had done it anyways, because it had been the right thing to do in his heart. For his people. For himself.

For the future he could almost see, just beyond the horizon line.

But he hadn’t - hadn’t  _ realized  _ how… he swallowed.

He was young, still. Too young, he knew the others thought. He’d been old enough to know his path, old enough to make that decision.

He wondered if you were ever old enough for this kind of grief.

He’d always had certainties in his life that shielded him. That kept his heart warm and full and  _ safe. _ His mother loved him. The land protected him. His siblings cared for him. And then, when he’d found him wandering, his father’s love joined the others.

To have that certainty - that north star in his heart -  _ ripped away  _ from him…

Tears beaded at the corners of his eyes, but didn’t fall. He’d already cried himself dry. All that was left was the aching emptiness in his chest, where those he’d trusted with his heart had ripped it away.

He was lost. Directionless. It was as if the stars had gone out in the sky, the land didn’t press against him, and he couldn’t find his way. He didn’t know where he was. He didn’t know where he should go.

_ Out,  _ the world pleaded with him,  _ come out. Come home.  _

The voice that called him  _ home  _ decades before. That lent him strength and home and pushed him to  _ choose.  _

He staggered to his feet, leaning against the cabin walls. For a moment, he considered just falling back down. Just laying there and letting the darkness hold him until the sun rose.

Shook himself off, and took a step.

_ Take a step.  _ He breathed. In and out, the pain of his lungs stretching his ribcage, pulling on the still searing burn on his chest. And stepped.  _ Step again.  _ And again. One foot in front of the other, to the window. Then to the door. Shaking hands turning the handle, until the cold wooden door sprung open and he was standing barefoot on the grass.

The lingering magic in the ground stretched out towards him, questing and curious, and even  _ concerned.  _ It was like a tiny whisper in his mind; the press of a concerned glance dancing on the very edge of his senses, pushing against the emptiness that had held him hostage.

Stars stretched above him, off into the endless horizon. Dripping into the ink dark sea just past the cliff face.

And on the edge, he could  _ see -  _

_ “Alfred! Come away from there, poppet!” _

_ “But daddy, I can fly! Besides, the ground will not let me fall.”  _

Grief twisted inside him, and his lips quivered.

_ He is lost,  _ his mind whispered, as the image of his father flickered behind closed eyes.  _ That hope is gone.  _ The hope of reconciliation that had burned through him after his Revolution had burned out, and tasted of ashes on his tongue.  _ But you must go on. You must.  _

He thought of the dawn, the one that had carried him away to  _ home  _ decades ago. Where he’d stood on the bow of the ship, eyes towards his future, and  _ known  _ that everything would change the moment Arthur woke to find him gone. Had  _ already  _ changed, the moment Alfred had decided to listen to his heart, had allowed himself to be called home.

That dawn had been different. There had been hope in him, burning strong with the sunlight that had chased them across the sea.

This dawn was different, too. It found him sitting at the cliff’s edge, curled into himself as his land warmed slowly by the ocean’s side. The first rays of sunlight brushed him, and he sipped at the warmth to drown out the aching cold that had held him prisoner for so long. Held the warmth in his heart - his burned out, war-wounded heart - and let hope spark in him once more.

The grief would never leave him. He would never forget what it had felt like to be so  _ empty  _ and numb that the world seemed to still and haze before him. He would never forget the ache in his heart, would carry the scar as long as he lived.

But he would make this choice, here. Like he had, that fated night, waking to the world calling him home. He would make that choice, to hear that voice.

And to do the next right thing.


End file.
